Veering toward the end of this year of insanity, here’s one last let-loose post before the year-end recap (which I’ve mercifully-shortened to two posts instead of the usual three or four -because we don’t need to prolong the agony). This is a fitting song for silliness, for a year in which I gave up the ghost of perfectionism, embracing our imperfect selves in an imperfect world. That meant being ok with looking ridiculous, a welcome change of pace which originally felt uncomfortable, but soon grew on me like a comfy pair of sweatpants in the middle of a grocery store.
I’M LAID BACK, I’M FEELING THIS
TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT, I JUST WANNA LET IT GO
HIT THE PLAYBACK, I KNOW YOU FEELING THIS
COME ON BABY, LET’S GET RIDICULOUS!
COME ON, COME ON, COME ON, COME ON
BABY LET’S GET RIDICULOUS
COME ON, COME ON, COME ON, COME ON
BABY LET’S GET RIDICULOUS
I WAS BORN TO ROCK THE PARTY
I WAS BORN TO ROCK YA BODY
I’M FRESH, I’M SLICK, I’M LA-DI-DA-DI
I’M LAID BACK, I’M FEELING THIS
TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT, I JUST WANNA LET IT GO
HIT THE PLAYBACK, I KNOW YOU FEELING THIS
COME ON BABY, LET’S GET RIDICULOUS!
COME ON, COME ON, COME ON, COME ON
BABY LET’S GET RIDICULOUS
COME ON, COME ON, COME ON, COME ON
BABY LET’S GET RIDICULOUS
For the better part of my life, even as a very young child, I’ve always been a rather serious person – perhaps too much so for my own good. Looking back, a great deal of things could have gone differently had I only learned to relax and let go and not been so hell-bent on being so right and so perfect. That’s not an easy thing to change, but this year I had to do it. There wasn’t a choice.
That ended up being the best thing that could have happened in the tumult that was 2020.
CRAZY, LOUD, GET WILD IN THE CROWD
LET’S GET CRAZY, LOUD, GET WILD IN THE CROWD
LET’S GET CRAZY, LOUD, GET WILD IN THE CROWD
PARTY PEOPLE
LET’S GET RIDICULOUS!
It was quite an adjustment, and a complete reversal of a mindset that took almost four and half decades to, well, perfect. That’s the thing, however – it wasn’t perfect. Even when things worked out according to itinerary and plan, even when the day or night was ordained before and after as something wonderful, it was never perfect. Because perfection is not for us to attain. Embracing that, and realizing my mistakes and shortcomings, became an adventure of its own. It was guided by therapy and meditation, grounded in honesty and difficult discussions, and in one of those magnificent strokes of the universe, it led to a lighter and somehow fuller way of living.
Admitting that I would never be perfect was the necessary first step in stumbling toward a happier existence. There was a certain freedom that came with that, and with apologizing for those times I was still figuring out and feeling my way through. Such fumbling and flailing is best done with a strong backing beat, some ass-flashing, a bit of bodacious twerking, and a blog post that can be both silly and serious – something for the booty and the mind – at the same time.
LET’S GET RIDICULOUS!
ALL THE TIME I’LL BE SEEING YOU AT SCHOOL
AND YOU SO FINE, I JUST HAD TO PLAY IT COOL
YOU BLOW MY MIND ALL THE CRAZY THINGS YOU DO
I SEE THAT YOU WANNA ACT A FOOL
SO BABY LET’S GET RIDICULOUS!
DECEMBER, IT ALWAYS HAPPENS IN DECEMBER
I GET A YEARNING FOR A CHRISTMAS I KNOW, WITH HOLLY AND SNOW
THE KIND WE USED TO HAVE BACK HOME A LONG TIME AGO
DECEMBER, BRINGS BACK A SCENE THAT I REMEMBER
THE LIGHTED CHRISTMAS TREES AND WINDOWS AT NIGHT
SO CHEERFUL AND BRIGHT, AND ALL THE WORLD A WONDERLAND (ALL COVERED WITH WHITE)
This was very much a December that needed all the Christmas magic it could possibly muster, and so let’s prolong the holiday spirit for longer than usual. In fact, I propose extending the light and the joy through January, and the darkest early days of winter. Why should we limit such good-will and noble sentiment? We should preserve Christmas in our hearts the year through.
CHILDREN SOUND ASLEEP ON CHRISTMAS EVE
THEY’RE DREAMING DREAMS OF MAKE BELIEVE
YOU CAN BET TOMORROW, THEY’LL BE THRILLED
WHEN THEY AWAKE TO FIND THEIR STOCKINGS FILLED
DECEMBER
THESE ARE THE THINGS THAT I REMEMBER
AND, SO NO MATTER WHAT MY FORTUNE MAY BE, OR WHERE I MAY ROAM
IN DECEMBER, I’LL BE GOING HOME
This song came on the radio as Andy and I were returning from dropping off a Christmas ham dinner to my parents. It was already dark, and most of the day was done. It had been a different sort of Christmas, staying home while Andy cooked the ham and an exquisite aroma of spiced glaze filled the house. Not wholly unpleasant, even as we missed seeing family and friends this year. I was just about ready to call it quits for another season when this song sounded its nostalgic magic, reminding me that Christmas is, was, and will always be more a feeling than a specific place or circumstance.
YOU’LL FIND THE CHILDREN SOUND ASLEEP ON CHRISTMAS EVE
THEY’RE DREAMING DREAMS OF MAKE BELIEVE
YOU CAN BET TOMORROW, THEY’LL BE THRILLED
WHEN THEY AWAKE TO FIND THEIR STOCKINGS FILLED
DECEMBER
THESE ARE THE THINGS THAT I REMEMBER
AND, SO NO MATTER WHAT MY FORTUNE MAY BE, OR WHERE I MAY ROAM
IN DECEMBER, I’LL BE GOING HOME
IN DECEMBER, (DECEMBER) I’LL BE GOING HOME
IN DECEMBER, I’LL BE GOING HOME
It’s a house that sparkles, somewhere along a historical cobblestone street, maybe in Troy or downtown Albany, the kind of house that has existed for centuries, which has seen more Christmas Eves and New Year’s Days than any of us ever would. Candelight flickers, while company laughs, ebbs and flows, pushes and parts, and more sparkle is held in a crystal glass of champagne, capturing and shattering shards of light as deadly as a necklace of nightshade.
Back then the problems were champagne of sort and level. That didn’t make them feel less valid, or hurt with diminished flair. If anything their pain felt more pointed, more acute, because it was the first brush with any hint of hurt. The single salty tear stings more than the entire ocean.
Youth and beauty and ignorant confidence glint off every surface. The loud laughter, the tailored suits, the plate rimmed in gold and balanced precariously in my hand; they leave me entranced and insecure. And so I hold my head higher, make my laughs louder, suck my stomach in just a little more and examine the effect as I pass a mirror. More sparkle, more champagne, more holiday twinkle…
On some of these nights I catch a glimpse of myself in a reflection ~ not plainly in a mirror like that, only in some curved piece of silver, some Christmas ornament, some darkened window ~ and I see what the others might see: the visage of someone who might have it all together, who might be the envy of everyone at the ball. It is only, and always, a passing fancy.
YOU BOOKED THE NIGHT TRAIN FOR A REASON
SO YOU COULD SIT THERE IN THIS HURT
BUSTLING CROWDS OR SILENT SLEEPERS
YOU’RE NOT SURE WHICH IS WORSE
This song is calling to me from a place I forgot existed. It’s a place of chilling beauty, of exile and solitude ~ the kind of solitude that is with you no matter how many people are around you, no matter how many want to hold your hand. I never let many do so, not even Andy at times. Maybe it was cruel of me. Maybe it was survival. Maybe I understood that Andy wasn’t a hand-holder either. It was very much all I knew how to do. It was the extent of how much I could allow myself to care, how much I was willing to risk. You don’t survive hurt without learning a little bit of how to prevent it. And even then, when you know it’s not fair, an instinct like a life-preserver floats stubbornly above the water, refusing to let you take that risk, refusing to let you drown again.
Champagne problems. Such a luxury to have such concerns form the heart of your difficulties. I see that now. I wonder at the way perspective changes over the years, at the way the world wears you down and opens you up. It throws worse and worse at you until you reach a point where wisdom reveals your own evolution.
BECAUSE I DROPPED YOUR HAND WHILE DANCING
LEFT YOU OUT THERE STANDING
CRESTFALLEN ON THE LANDING
CHAMPAGNE PROBLEMS
YOUR MOM’S RING IN YOUR POCKET
MY PICTURE IN YOUR WALLET
YOUR HEART WAS GLASS, I DROPPED IT
CHAMPAGNE PROBLEMS
This song is not about something I specifically relate to, and there’s a certain release and relief from that. Songs can be read on all sorts of levels, and the best ones mean so many things to so many different people that a single reading is no more valuable than any other. The egalitarian and universal power of good music is ever a wonder ~ the sounds of angels, the whispers of sages.
YOU TOLD YOUR FAMILY FOR A REASON
YOU COULDN’T KEEP IT IN
YOUR SISTER SPLASHED OUT ON THE BOTTLE
NOW NO ONE’S CELEBRATING
Categorizing something or someone as having “champagne problems” – not unlike the “first world problems” phrase – is both derisive and dismissive, designed to be an attack and an eradication. It fails at both tonight, the blows glancing off my velvet shoulders, the reach sadly short, and ever unassailing. Perhaps their agitation and annoyance is pure envy, a somewhat sad jealousy that their problems weren’t quite as silly and trivial. They wanted to provoke and anger and all I gave them was pity. The deadly blow is mine. It lands stealthily. It lands quietly. They won’t feel it, if they ever feel it, until much later. And then they will hate me like so many others. But when we meet again, at the next night of sparkle, they will smile and make motions to hug me.
DOM PERIGNON, YOU BROUGHT IT
NO CROWD OF FRIENDS APPLAUDED
YOUR HOMETOWN SKEPTICS CALLED IT
CHAMPAGNE PROBLEMS
YOU HAD A SPEECH, YOU’RE SPEECHLESS
LOVE SLIPPED BEYOND YOUR REACHES
AND I COULDN’T GIVE A REASON
CHAMPAGNE PROBLEMS
Champagne problems. The luxury of rejecting a proposal. The luxury of saying no. The luxury of being asked. The luxury of poetic pining…
“Once, when I was young and true. Someone left me sad – Broke my brittle heart in two; And that is very bad.
Love is for unlucky folk, Love is but a curse. Once there was a heart I broke; And that, I think, is worse.” – Dorothy Parker
The luxury of such bullshit.
Do we muster pity for the one who knew enough to end it, the one who was strong enough to let it go before it went to hell? I’ve not often been in that position. Too weak to do so in the past, I could never honor that before now. Wisdom comes later than needed in so many circumstances.
I once knew a woman who broke off an engagement, quite close to the original wedding date, because she had fallen in love with another guy. She had never done anything in her life quite that drastic or dramatic. In fact, she had always been one of our more sensible and pragmatic friends. Scientific to a fault, organized and methodical and regimented in almost every aspect of her life – except, in the end, when it came to her heart. We thought she had lost her mind when she did it. What the hell did we know? Twenty years and several kids later she’s still with the guy she knew was the right one. I wonder about her first fiance, sometimes.
YOUR MIDAS TOUCH ON THE CHEVY DOOR
NOVEMBER FLUSH AND YOUR FLANNEL CURE
‘HIS DORM WAS ONCE A MADHOUSE’
I MADE A JOKE ‘WELL, IT’S MADE FOR ME’ HOW
EVERGREEN, OUR GROUP OF FRIENDS
DON’T THINK WE’LL SAY THAT WORD AGAIN
AND SOON THEY’LL HAVE THE NERVE TO DECK THE HALLS
THAT WE ONCE WALKED THROUGH
Most of us aren’t intentionally bad people ~ we do things as best as we can when life trips us up, when emotions drive us into dangerous territory. Love can be a fickle and capricious thing. I stopped trying to trap it or figure it out years ago. My friends and I are a little older now. We deal with things a little differently than we did in our 20’s, but love knows no age, it knows no reason.
ONE FOR THE MONEY, TWO FOR THE SHOW
I NEVER WAS READY, SO I WATCH YOU GO
SOMETIMES YOU JUST DON’T KNOW THE ANSWER
TILL SOMEONE’S ON THEIR KNEES AND ASKS YOU
‘SHE WOULD’VE MADE SUCH A LOVELY BRIDE
WHAT A SHAME SHE’S STUCK IN HER HEAD’ THEY SAID
BUT YOU’LL FIND THE REAL THING INSTEAD
SHE’LL PATCH UP YOUR TAPESTRY THAT I SHRED
And yet some champagne problems are sometimes much deeper than they seem. Darker and more serious, they hint of flaws that run deep, chasms that go black before you’ve even approached bottom. A fear that paralyzes, that prevents the heart from making a move. Is it better to be safe? Is there safety in refusing? Or is it safer to follow your heart and not wonder about it years later? I occasionally think about my friend who broke off her first engagement. She seems happy, surrounded by a family, sure and safe and content~ what more could anyone want? She followed her heart and it led her to happiness. Maybe that’s the surest way to make your journey through life. I don’t know what became of her first fiance, which path he took, where he went, what he’s doing now. Surely there is something sweeter in store for the ones we leave behind.
There are at least two parts to a broken heart. And a thousand sides and stories.
AND HOLD YOUR HAND WHILE DANCING
NEVER LEAVE YOU STANDING
CRESTFALLEN ON THE LANDING
WITH CHAMPAGNE PROBLEMS
YOUR MOM’S RING IN YOUR POCKET
HER PICTURE IN YOUR WALLET
AND YOU WON’T REMEMBER ALL MY
CHAMPAGNE PROBLEMS
Holiday lights sparkle in different aspects now. Fuzzier in some ways, brighter in others, and this year there are no parties to distract or pull focus from the way the mind wants to wander. It’s easier to live through the pain of other people, the stories of other lives, the mistakes that aren’t our own. We want to flirt with champagne problems to avoid the real ones from which we cannot escape.
Maybe that’s why I love this song. It tells a story that’s not mine. It tells a story of champagne problems that could be real or imagined, silly or serious, frivolous or ferocious – however one wants to read them. In a way, it’s a form of reverse mindfulness – occupying the head and pushing one’s own concerns out of the space. A neat twist on meditation without the deep breathing and lotus-folded legs.
The sadness of someone else’s pain playing its story out on the piano…
The Holiday Homeroom Door Decorating contest had been announced first thing that morning, and in my sophomore grade year of high school that was the sort of shit with which I wanted less to do than joining the boys basketball team. I sat back and watched kids who cared more battle out what out theme would be, and who would do what as far as the artistic execution of it went. I probably proposed spraying glue on the thing and blowing a bunch of glitter at it with a hair dryer. Whatever my easy-squeezy proposal might have been, it was overridden by a worthier cause and theme: Santa in Saudi. At that moment in history – December of the year 1990 – we had sent troops into Saudi Arabia, and all our thoughts were there.
FROM A DISTANCE THE WORLD LOOKS BLUE AND GREEN AND THE SNOW-CAPPED MOUNTAINS WHITE FROM A DISTANCE THE OCEAN MEETS THE STREAM AND THE EAGLE TAKES TO FLIGHT FROM A DISTANCE THERE IS HARMONY AND IT ECHOES THROUGH THE LAND AND IT’S THE VOICE OF HOPE AND IT’S THE VOICE OF PEACE IT’S THE VOICE OF EVERY MAN
This was in the days when five casualties were five too many, and any death seemed unfathomable to those of us who only knew of a world where a Cold War left us worried but no one died over it. (A far cry from today, when 300,000 American deaths go numbly in one ear and out the other. Also a distant ways from the 3,000 Americans we lost on 9/11.) As high school students, what else could we do? What could anyone expect us to do? Certainly not understand the gravity of it, and so we did the best we knew. We (and by we, I mean people more artistically-talented and capable than me) set about to crafting a life-size Santa figure in desert camouflage and sunglasses (I think I was wisely made responsible only for one his boots). Titled ‘Santa In Saudi’ it also included a banner saying ‘Let’s Keep It A Silent Night’.
When I think back to Mr. Winning’s 10thgrade math class – the homeroom in which we assembled this troop-homage – my heart grows a little tender for our attempt at making a message for the holiday season, and for my classmates who so earnestly and fervently went about making it come to life. I also recall this song made popular by Bette Midler in that unsettling Season of Saudi, when we worried about our troops in the embracing way this country has historically cared for its own. I didn’t know there was a Christmas version of it recorded years later. Back then, it all came together – Christmas, a distant war, and the way almost every tenth-grader wanted to feel less alone. This song choked me up then, when I sat and listened to it behind a closed door, when the snow fell outside and we wondered if it was anything like the swirling heat and sand of Saudi Arabia.
FROM A DISTANCE
THE WORLD SINGS ‘SILENT NIGHT’
LIKE A SOFT EMBRACING PSALM
FROM A DISTANCE (FROM A DISTANCE)
THE WORDS SOUND SWEET AND CLEAR
AND ALL IS BRIGHT AND CALM
FROM A DISTANCE
WE ARE INSTRUMENTS
MARCHING IN A COMMON BAND
PLAYING SONGS OF HOPE
PLAYING SONGS OF PEACE
THEY’RE THE SONGS OF EVERY MAN
At home, in the cover of night and snow, I found a roll of yellow ribbon and tied it around the maple trees in front of our house, telling no one. They appeared, I hoped, like some Christmas miracle, a small sign of support for a fight over which none of us had any control. It was the least – and the most – that I could do back then.
FROM A DISTANCE
YOU, YOU LOOK LIKE MY FRIEND
EVEN THOUGH WE ARE AT WAR
FROM A DISTANCE
I JUST I CANNOT COMPREHEND
WHAT ALL THIS FIGHTING’S FOR
FROM A DISTANCE
THERE IS HARMONY
DO YOU HEAR IT ECHO THROUGH THE LAND
IT’S THE SONG OF JOY
IT’S THE SONG OF PEACE
IT’S THE HEART OF EVERY MAN
IN THE SEASON OF
UNIVERSAL LOVE
The holidays linger like bad perfume You can run, but only so far I escaped it too, remember how you watched me leave But if it’s okay with you, it’s okay with me
Before knowing exactly how much more often I’d be traveling home these past few weeks, I’d scheduled some fortuitous Fridays off from work, as much to make use of accumulated vacation time (unused from these previous months of non-travel) as for holiday errands and deliveries. This past Friday was one such day of minor running about, as I made my way to Amsterdam to drop off some food for my parents. The timing worked out beautifully, as the new Taylor Swift album had been released the midnight prior, and there’s nothing better than listening to good music while driving on a sunny day. This particular album was perfect for a drive on the verge of winter.
Dropping off some adobo and banana bread I’d made that morning, I stayed a safe distance from Mom and Dad in the garage as we talked of family and friends, of the sun that was still shining in December, of the changed holiday plans for this strange year and season. Yet it wasn’t bad, it wasn’t sorrowful – it was actually nice. The idea of a pared-down and simple Christmas hewed closer to home, held closer to our Christmases as children. Maybe that’s part of the lesson the universe wants us to learn right now. When the pupil is ready, the teacher always appears.
Who’ll write books about me, if I ever make it and wonder about the only soul Who can tell which smiles I’m faking’and the heart I know I’m breakin’ is my own To leave the warmest bed I’ve ever known
There have been a lot of people who have tried to supplant Madonna in my heart. A couple of them were quickly and easily dismissed ~ Britney and Christina, for example. A couple were definite contenders ~ Beyonce and Lady Gaga ~ still both possible contenders given their talent and shape-shifting durability. Now, Taylor Swift is making her move with the surprise release of a second album in a single year. It’s a bold endeavor of genius and brilliance, backed up by a collection of songcraft that is just as strong and compelling as its precursor. (Madonna should take a lesson and put down the Instagram and tattoo excursions for a bit.)
Swift’s second surprise drop, the companion/continuation of ‘folklore’ titled ‘evermore’ carries on where ‘folklore’ ended, apparently a little too soon. This is its winter sister, and she may be slightly better than the original. If I had one tiny little criticism of ‘folklore’ it was that its atmosphere felt too winter-like for such a summery release and themes; ‘evermore’ confirms this opinion, for me (others may feel quite differently) and with that it succeeds on absolutely every level, with its seasonal references to November and December, decking the halls, and titles like ’tis the damn season’.
There is holiday sparkle in a song titled ‘champagne problems’ but the underlying story is a deeper and more complex one that makes these latest albums such powerful vehicles for a mature and artistically-challenging evolution. The music behind it remains the driving force of Swift’s magic, and she has once again conjured a cohesive sonic adventure, a journey of emotional fables and modern-day folklore such as in the opening ‘willow’, continuing stories with fictional (or not?) figures like ‘dorothea’ and ‘marjorie’; those story songs paint vivid portraits, while leaving enough room for varied interpretation, which is the trick to lasting art.
Swift delves into a wiser and more blunt examination of love and romance and relationships ~ more ambivalent, more unsettling, as evidenced by the heartbreaking ‘tolerate it’ or the devastating ‘happiness’ ~ both of which posit questions of how much we are willing to take, how much we might deserve, and how undeserving we might also be. The best stories ~ the ones that reflect our own ~ are not always easily reconciled with happy endings or definitive destruction. Our hearts spill messier than that, they want things that aren’t always noble, they grasp for things that might not make sense… yet they beat on, wanting what they want, destroying when they get hurt, crying out to be understood even when they know none of it makes sense.
Swift has made another prescient album, revealing our hearts at a time when an apocalyptic year comes to its welcome close, when winter is at our doorstep and darker days haunt future corridors. These are songs to see us through such desolation, a gauzy musical mood in which the heart nestles, comforted and acknowledged, even as its restlessness and longing goes unresolved. May such music see us through to the spring.
The two of us – one straight guy (a young man I already considered a friend) and myself (still in the closet in my first semester at Brandeis) – made our way back to the dorm from our usual dinner at Sherman Hall. It was a crisp November night, and the air was clear, allowing for a stupendous showing by the moon, who rose overhead and elicited my notice mostly due to my having been studying her all semester in an Astronomy course. I pointed her out to my friend, who slowed to a stop and eyed me with a slight look of apprehension in his eyes. “Look at the moon,” I said innocently, about to dive into a scintillating explanation of its phases and how quickly they changed.
He stopped, sizing me up suspiciously in the way he did when something truly confounded him, then tilted his chin slightly higher. I’d seen the gesture in our dinner debates when I made a point that challenged everything he thought he knew. Then he said the words that would forever chill my heart: “You’re not going fag on me, are you?” It wasn’t entirely malicious, yet it wasn’t entirely a joke either. I knew him well enough to know he wasn’t kidding. And I knew myself enough to know I had to leave him behind.
WHY DID YOU GO? WHY DID YOU TURN AWAY FROM ME?
WHEN ALL THE WORLD SEEMED TO SING, WHY… WHY DID YOU GO?
WAS IT ME? WAS IT YOU?
QUESTIONS IN A WORLD OF BLUE
In that moment, instantly and irrevocably, I shut down any opportunity of a friendship between us. My heart broke a little, the proverbial ground beneath my moral standing shifted, and the world turned a shade dimmer because I knew immediately I had lost a friend. As jarring as it was – he’d never made any derogatory remarks about gay people before – and as startled as I felt, I laughed and reassured him, stumbling over a nervous reference to what I was studying in Astronomy. Inside, though, everything had changed.
That was a choice – and it was an internal choice mostly at first, but a definite decision, one that would eventually and definitively destroy whatever friendship there was between us. Neither of us knew that yet. We continued walking, laughing it off. Maybe I was a tad bit too defensive. Maybe he understood something not even I did at that point, and realized it as soon as the comment came out of his mouth. Maybe he wanted me to understand what would not stand in his world. There were so many maybes back then.
HOW CAN A HEART THAT’S FILLED WITH LOVE START TO CRY?
WHEN ALL THE WORLD SEEMED SO RIGHT, HOW CAN LOVE DIE?
WAS IT ME? WAS IT YOU?
QUESTIONS IN A WORLD OF BLUE
I only knew that I couldn’t have someone like that close to me. And so the distancing began. It was unintentional and imperceptible at first. We continued going to dinner, but something was altered. In my reticence and reluctance to fully reveal any more of myself, in my pulling back and edging away from the closeness that fosters friendship, I’d already begun the irreversible slide to becoming strangers again.
It was unfortunate, as he had quickly become my closest friend at Brandeis, and at that point in my life I desperately needed a friend. I think he did too. He lived in the room next door. His roommate was a total dick, and mine was never around (I loved him for that), and so we ended up going to dinner a lot. He was staunchly Republican and conservative, and I’d been raised in a Republican, conservative household, so we held a lot of the same values. I’d not really taken any interest in politics at that time, even though I held strongly liberal views on social issues. We would make fledgling attempts at discussing the issues of the time, and I’d often take the liberal viewpoint just to be the devil’s advocate, to challenge him as much as I was challenging myself. We could agree to disagree, and somehow came out at the end of every dinner a little closer for it.
WHEN DID THE DAY WITH ALL ITS LIGHT TURN INTO NIGHT?
WHEN ALL THE WORLD SEEMED TO SING, WHY… WHY DID YOU GO?
WHY, WHY DID YOU GO?
WAS IT ME? WAS IT YOU?
QUESTIONS IN A WORLD OF BLUE
QUESTIONS IN A WORLD OF BLUE
For the remainder of that fall semester we acted as friends – even as I felt myself moving away from him. He obviously thought nothing of the night of the moon, and I was too insecure to bring it up again. I hadn’t even come out to myself, much less anyone else, so it didn’t much matter. Without being honest to anyone, it was impossible for me to get truly close to people. Still, someone who could so easily roll the word ‘fag’ off his tongue and tinge it with slight derision and warning was not someone I wanted in my friendship circle, whether or not I turned out to be gay.
When we left for Thanksgiving break, something was already broken, and in the few weeks before winter break, I let the cracks deepen and widen, moving us further apart even as he was largely unaware of the seismic shift. I went home for the holidays and didn’t think much of him. When we returned for the spring semester, we met only sporadically for dinner, and when our Freshman year was done, I don’t even remember saying goodbye to him.
A couple of years later, after I had come out and become comfortable with that part of myself, I saw him briefly as we passed each other near the commuter rail. It was an anticlimactic reunion, rushed on both sides. He eyed my leopard-print velvet scarf with that same suspicious glint in his eyes, and told me it was… interesting. There was a lot said in that, and more in the deliberate pause that came before it – at least I attributed a lot to it – but looking back there may not have been anything. It was a meeting that lasted a few seconds. We said farewell and I never looked back.
MOVING NEAR THE EDGE AT NIGHT
DUST IS DANCING IN THE SPACE
A DOG AND BIRD ARE FAR AWAY
THE SUN COMES UP AND DOWN EACH DAY
LIGHT AND SHADOW CHANGE THE WALLS
HALLEY’S COMET’S COME AND GONE
THE THINGS I TOUCH ARE MADE OF STONE
FALLING THROUGH THIS NIGHT ALONE
If there is a main regret of my college years, and I’m ok with admitting a few now, it was that I shut down so substantially that I didn’t give us – and our friendship – another chance. I wish I had reached out to forge a bridge and talk about it, rather than burning the bridge and burying what bothered us before talking it out. The failing was mostly on me. His comment, in hindsight, may not have been the homophobic accusation it felt like at the time. Maybe it was just guy talk in the mid 90’s, which was a long time ago, in a decidedly different world. I may have given up too soon.
LOVE, DON’T GO AWAY
COME BACK THIS WAY
COME BACK AND STAY
FOREVER AND EVER
PLEASE STAY
That brings us to this moment, when division between people is at an all-time high. Rather than pausing to seek out understanding in what separates us, we instantly take a side, and we dig in and hold tight to our positions even when they are brought down by fact and reason, even when we might know we are wrong. For many years, I stood by my dissolution of our friendship. And to be fair, I understood myself enough to know that I was not evolved enough to offer forgiveness or understanding, nor did I have the knowledge or strength or will to work on communicating with someone who could so flippantly let the word ‘fag’ fall effortlessly out of his mouth. But that’s not fair to him.
I wish I had been more open to that. I wish I had not been so quick to judge and condemn. I had killed it. One-sided friendships simply don’t work, especially if there is subterfuge and resentment bubbling beneath the surface. In my own closet of fear and shame, I’d shut the door to any meaningful connections, most regrettably to a potential friend, as different as we might have been to each other. That was a failure on my part, and I may have lost out on an enriching relationship, on a connection that might have made both of us into better people.
DUST IS DANCING IN THE SPACE
A DOG AND BIRD ARE FAR AWAY
THE SUN COMES UP AND DOWN EACH DAY
THE RIVER FLOWS OUT TO THE SEA
LOVE, DON’T GO AWAY
COME BACK THIS WAY
COME BACK AND STAY
FOREVER AND EVER
PLEASE ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF I’M A MAN OF WEALTH AND TASTE I’VE BEEN AROUND FOR A LONG, LONG YEAR STOLE MANY A MAN’S SOUL TO WASTE
AND I WAS ‘ROUND WHEN JESUS CHRIST HAD HIS MOMENT OF DOUBT AND PAIN MADE DAMN SURE THAT PILATE WASHED HIS HANDS AND SEALED HIS FATE
Like many gay men of a certain age, I went through my own ‘Interview With a Vampire’ phase. It happened mostly when the books were cresting on the bestseller lists, and had a brief Renaissance when the movie version with Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt came out. That movie was playing on television the other day and while it hasn’t aged as well as I remember it (I was all in on the fantasy and over-acting realm back then) it still has a killer ending with an amazing song that segues seamlessly into the rolling credits. It’s not the original ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ by Rolling Stones, but the cover done by the rock band of my generation ‘Guns N’ Roses’ that brings it all home here. I’m not mad about it, and I won’t be judged for it. Much as I won’t be judged for my outfits of the time, which I jauntily wore to the supermarket with Suzie. Hannaford didn’t know what hit it, and I was amused and annoyed at the reactions. Live and let live.
PLEASED TO MEET YOU HOPE YOU GUESS MY NAME BUT WHAT’S PUZZLING YOU IS THE NATURE OF MY GAME
Ahh the 90’s – and oh what a fashion world I fashioned for myself. Caught somewhere between International Male, Merry Go Round, and urban outfitters, I was such a hot mess I couldn’t even begin to explain what was on my mind and how or why I made such sartorial choices. Trying on different guises at break-neck speed, mostly I was searching for an identity without realizing that changeability is the toughest personality trait to identify and own. Frilly shirts and top hats and neck bites? The lure of the vampires would do just as well as any number of costumes. Their decadence and unabashed hunger appealed to me as well.
I STUCK AROUND ST. PETERSBURG WHEN I SAW IT WAS A TIME FOR A CHANGE KILLED THE CZAR AND HIS MINISTERS ANASTASIA SCREAMED IN VAIN
I RODE A TANK HELD A GENERAL’S RANK WHEN THE BLITZKRIEG RAGED AND THE BODIES STANK
PLEASED TO MEET YOU HOPE YOU GUESS MY NAME, OH YEAH WHAT’S PUZZLING YOU IS THE NATURE OF MY GAME, OH YEAH
There were more serious underlying themes to the vampires as well. AIDS was still ravaging the gay community. An exchange of bodily fluids could be deadly. Blood was once again a matter of life and death. I didn’t delve that deeply. Embracing their superficial appearance, and the darkly romanticized atmospheres of New Orleans and Paris, I focused on the horse-drawn carriages with velvet curtains, satin capes that flowed and floated, and the outward trappings of Anne Rice’s fantastical vampire world. There was safety in staying solely on the surface.
I WATCHED WITH GLEE WHILE YOUR KINGS AND QUEENS FOUGHT FOR TEN DECADES FOR THE GODS THEY MADE
I SHOUTED OUT WHO KILLED THE KENNEDYS? WHEN AFTER ALL IT WAS YOU AND ME
LET ME PLEASE INTRODUCE MYSELF I’M A MAN OF WEALTH AND TASTE AND I LAID TRAPS FOR TROUBADOURS WHO GET KILLED BEFORE THEY REACHED BOMBAY
There was evil in wading no deeper than the surface as well. Escaping the reality of the early gay 90’s didn’t mean I could escape from myself. It only delayed certain inevitable heartbreak and hurt. It delayed meeting and facing the person beneath the frills. A costume was not only a mask to the outer world, it disguised me from seeing into who I was as well. I was not immune to losing myself to the games I played. Part of the elaborate dress-capades were certain elements of distraction, designed to keep everyone off the scent of my tracks when cologne wasn’t enough.
PLEASED TO MEET YOU
HOPE YOU GUESSED MY NAME, OH YEAH
BUT WHAT’S CONFUSING YOU
IS JUST THE NATURE OF MY GAME
JUST AS EVERY COP IS A CRIMINAL
AND ALL THE SINNERS SAINTS
AS HEADS IS TAILS
JUST CALL ME LUCIFER
‘CAUSE I’M IN NEED OF SOME RESTRAINT
SO IF YOU MEET ME
HAVE SOME COURTESY
HAVE SOME SYMPATHY, AND SOME TASTE
USE ALL YOUR WELL-LEARNED POLITESSE
OR I’LL LAY YOUR SOUL TO WASTE
Mostly, though, these sartorial shenanigans were what passed for entertainment at a time when other past-times could have quite literally proved deadly. In the small town of Amsterdam, home from college on Thanksgiving or Christmas break, I would prowl the nights decked out in such silly finery, and the worst that might happen were a few snickers or raised eyebrows at the check-out line at K-Mart. That didn’t bother or offend me. My self-ordained fabulousness shone so brightly and so intently that it obliterated everything in my path – even, and perhaps especially, ignorance and ridicule. Like those fabled vampires, I felt invincible, untouchable, and impeccable. If it only took a top hat and velvet cape to make myself feel like a hero, how far from the real thing could I have been?
PLEASED TO MEET YOU
HOPE YOU GUESSED MY NAME
BUT WHAT’S PUZZLING YOU
IS THE NATURE OF MY GAME
TELL ME BABY, WHAT’S MY NAME
TELL ME HONEY, CAN YA GUESS MY NAME
TELL ME BABY, WHAT’S MY NAME
I TELL YOU ONE TIME, YOU’RE TO BLAME
On those November nights leading into the holidays, when madness and debauchery and glamour collide, I can still feel the pull of sumptuous fabrics and candlelit rooms of mystery and dark allure, where shadows hid both honor and baseness. Whispers of vampires, caresses of fangs, and the metallic sting of blood can be the stuff of kisses or death. No bejeweled costume could save me from that.
Though it resembles a street light, the warm yellow orb in the middle of this photo is actually the recent full Blue Moon we had on Halloween. It’s usually a toss-up between a full moon or Mercury in retrograde as far as which will wreak the most havoc. Knowing we were in the midst of both, I’ve been keeping quiet at those times when I’m sure I’m right, because no one seems to like someone who’s always right. If I had a Q-Rating it would most certainly not be good. Back to the moon – this Blue Moon – and a song sung by Ella Fitzgerald to warm the not-so-chilly nights we’ve had of late.
BLUE MOON YOU SAW ME STANDING ALONE
WITHOUT A DREAM IN MY HEART
WITHOUT A LOVE OF MY OWN
BLUE MOON, YOU KNEW JUST WHAT I WAS THERE FOR
YOU HEARD ME SAYING A PRAYER FOR
SOMEONE I REALLY COULD CARE FOR
I don’t know where or when I first heard this song, but I’ve known it forever. It’s one of those songs most people know without knowing specifically how they know it. Tom Ford used it to romantic effect in his debut masterpiece ‘A Single Man’ but I knew it long before then, and I recall it hazily from solitary nights between Boston and Brandeis, when the moon would peek out from behind the turret where my dorm room was suspended in the sky, and I’d wonder at the beauty of it, and whether we were designed to share such beauty, or simply indulge in it alone.
AND THEN THERE SUDDENLY APPEARED BEFORE ME
THE ONLY ONE MY ARMS WILL EVER HOLD
I HEARD SOMEBODY WHISPER “PLEASE ADORE ME”
AND WHEN I LOOKED, THE MOON HAD TURNED TO GOLD
BLUE MOON NOW I’M NO LONGER ALONE
WITHOUT A DREAM IN MY HEART
WITHOUT A LOVE OF MY OWN
These days the moon holds a different allure, a more tentative grasp on romance. It sends us into fits of lunacy more often than not, especially when it’s pulling full, and the world goes slightly mad. Careful the things you wish for, it seems to say, before rocking us again and exerting its maniacal force. Not even Friday the 13thholds such sway. And so we eye it with trembling trepidation, respectful and somewhat in awe of its power. Blue or gold, harvest or wolf, it demands reverence, and a song.
AND THEN THERE SUDDENLY APPEARED BEFORE ME
THE ONLY ONE MY ARMS WILL EVER HOLD
I HEARD SOMEBODY WHISPER “PLEASE ADORE ME”
AND WHEN I LOOKED, THE MOON HAD TURNED TO GOLD
BLUE MOON NOW I’M NO LONGER ALONE
WITHOUT A DREAM IN MY HEART
WITHOUT A LOVE OF MY OWN
Existing simultaneously in Boston and Albany in the fall of 2000, I was going back and forth between both cities as I began my courtship and dating of Andy. It was a wonderful time in most ways. I was also extremely young. Twenty-five is still young, and seems even more-so at my current age. Because of that I was still making mistakes and finding my way, discovering who I was and who I wanted to be. Sometimes, more importantly, I found out who I didn’t want to be. In such dizzying times, in perhaps the last period of innocence of a pre-9/11 world, and in my last days of any semblance of youth, I found a mirror in a Backstreet Boys song. Back in 2000, that was the extent of drama and import, and I adored the carefree frivolity of such an atmosphere.
BABY, PLEASE TRY TO FORGIVE ME
STAY HERE DON’T PUT OUT THE GLOW
HOLD ME NOW DON’T BOTHER
IF EVERY MINUTE IT MAKES ME WEAKER
YOU CAN SAVE ME FROM THE MAN THAT I’VE BECOME, OH YEAH
Lately some of my musical posts have been fraught with serious and somber sentiment, but in the majority of daily life, I tend to listen to lighthearted pop music. Raised and formed on a steady diet of Madonna, Michael, Janet and Prince, I continue to have an affection for 80’s bubblegum dance-pop. A killer melody and a diabolical hook get me every time. The cheesiness of a cute cadre of boy band members who know how to harmonize and move in tandem works well too. At the turn of the millennium, my tastes turned to Britney and the Backstreet Boys, even as I was aging out of their key and desired demographic. (Yes, I even had a Backstreet Boys day calendar.)
LOOKING BACK ON THE THINGS I’VE DONE
I WAS TRYING TO BE SOMEONE
I PLAYED MY PART, KEPT YOU IN THE DARK
NOW LET ME SHOW YOU THE SHAPE OF MY HEART
As silly and trifling as the boy bands were, some of their songs stand up to the test of time, as any powerful pop song will do. Vessels of personality and voice come and go – the music remains. As for the Backstreet Boys, the song they released in October of 2000 was something that spoke to me on a number of levels.
SADNESS IS BEAUTIFUL, LONELINESS THAT’S TRAGIC
SO HELP ME I CAN’T WIN THIS WAR, OH NO
TOUCH ME NOW, DON’T BOTHER
IF EVERY SECOND IT MAKES ME WEAKER
YOU CAN SAVE ME FROM THE MAN I’VE BECOME
A decent pop song speaks both simply and deeply. It can be read on a surface level, and if it stays there, that’s enough for the essence of pop, especially if the music is frothy enough. Ear worms and aural candy and all that lovely stuff. But when the lyrics grow a little more serious, when they can come to mean more than they might upon first listen, then something more magnificent happens. At such times, a pop song transcends its typical limitations. When that crosses at a particularly exciting or meaningful moment in one’s life, a sonic memory is forged.
LOOKING BACK ON THE THINGS I’VE DONE
I WAS TRYING TO BE SOMEONE
I PLAYED MY PART, KEPT YOU IN THE DARK
NOW LET ME SHOW YOU THE SHAPE OF MY HEART
I’M HERE WITH MY CONFESSION
GOT NOTHING TO HIDE NO MORE
I DON’T KNOW WHERE TO START
BUT TO SHOW YOU THE SHAPE OF MY HEART
Back at the tender age of twenty-five, part of me wanted glory. And part of me understood that the glory I sought wasn’t in fame or fortune, but in the family and friends I was culling and curating – a chosen family of sorts, and one that centered around a man named Andy. I wanted to be someone, but mostly I wanted to be someone who mattered to the people who mattered most to me. That’s still the case. And so this silly little pop song remains true.
LOOKING BACK ON THE THINGS I’VE DONE
I WAS TRYING TO BE SOMEONE
I PLAYED MY PART, KEPT YOU IN THE DARK
NOW LET ME SHOW YOU THE SHAPE OF MY HEART
LOOKING BACK ON THE THINGS I’VE DONE
I WAS TRYING TO BE SOMEONE
I PLAYED MY PART, KEPT YOU IN THE DARK
NOW LET ME SHOW YOU THE SHAPE OF
An oiled-up naked man graces the cover of Club 69’s debut album ‘Adults Only’ and, truth be forever told, that’s partly why I had to buy the CD at Tower Records. It was the 90’s and this was the standard club fare – house music and strong-throated divas singing power-anthems with a driving beat and a killer melody.
As the gay community smoldered in the ashes of the AIDS epidemic, and the damage to a generation was still burning strong around the world, I looked at love with wary eyes. For those of us who came of age at a certain time, sex would always be tinged with danger – and the lurking possibility that it could lead to death. What does that do to an already-marginalized population?
For the most part, I spent my weekends alone in the Boston condo – glad and comforted by the proximity of Chaps or Club Cafe, but socially anxious enough to not dare step foot into their darkened dens by myself, aside from the occasional moment of alcohol-induced bravery in which I’d join a few friends for a night of tea dancing. I always had a blast, but it was never enough to make me a regular, and hardly ever did I venture out alone. When my twinkdom was at its most potent, I was at my most hermit-like. I don’t regret it in the least. It may have saved my life. AIDS was still ravaging the gay community. Safe-sex was just starting to become the default, but people would always do what they wanted, no matter the risk or stupidity. The only person you could absolutely trust was yourself, and even then lust and desire could make you see things as they weren’t truly so.
Instead, I’d spin this CD of house music and play out fantasies of club life within the safety of my bedroom: dance party of one. I could wear only my underwear and no one would stare or cop a feel. I could get as sweaty as I wanted and just take a few short steps into the shower. I could dance the night away, absolutely safe and secure, and there was joy enough in dancing with myself.
Only Ella Fitzgerald could conjure such a wistful and melancholic portrait of autumn, and it seems right for a rainy autumn day. Or night – this may be too moody for a daytime romp. It requires a darkness not provided by an overcast day. Thankfully, our Thanksgiving cactus is already in early bud, signaling the arrival of earlier nights.
A WINDING COUNTRY LANE ALL RUSSET BROWN,
A FROSTY WINDOW PANE SHOWS ME A TOWN GROWN LONELY.
THAT SPRING OF OURS THAT STARTED SO APRIL-HEARTED,
SEEMED MADE FOR JUST A BOY AND GIRL.
I NEVER DREAMED, DID YOU, ANY FALL WOULD COME IN VIEW
SO EARLY, EARLY.
DARLING IF YOU CARE, PLEASE, LET ME KNOW,
I’LL MEET YOU ANYWHERE, I MISS YOU SO.
LET’S NEVER HAVE TO SHARE ANOTHER EARLY AUTUMN.
This song has been on repeat in these parts for its introspective vibe, and for my memories of the moment of friendship it marked in the play from which it is writ. Part of Imogen Heap’s wondrous score for the Harry Potter plays, it’s one of the most magical points in the story, not for the stagecraft wizardry at work but for the simple emotional arc it creates.
A quick little counterpoint to the action and the special effects, it reminded the audience that the most mesmerizing moments in the theater – and in life – are not the pyrotechnics and explosions, but rather the quiet little times of connection and friendship that get us through the difficult things life is constantly throwing in our way.
That’s the stuff of magic. That’s the stuff of enchantment.
I’m lucky to be so rich in friends and family that I don’t need the fireworks or the pizzazz – they are fine to complement and accent the tapestry of what really matters, but they are not required. Friendships sparkle with laughter and tears, love glows with glorious warmth and the heat of many years – these wonders conjure all the charms we ever needed.
The walls back then were an unabashed bordello red. I tried tempering it with a rag-off technique, but there’s just so much one can rag off when blood red is splattered over all the plaster. It didn’t translate to most photos anyway, so for all intents and purposes it was as red as the reddest rose. The kitchen, adjacent but for an occasional curtain (at the time it was purple velvet, I believe) was a bright Kelly green. The recessed lights glowed warmly, bouncing off the shiny wooden floors and lending more visual heat in a Boston fall which grew colder and colder with each passing day. This then was the condo in the fall of 1997, a mostly uneventful pocket of time – and one that is slightly hazy for its lack of memorable events. I’d just gone around the world in the first half of the year, and now I was back in Boston a little lost and a little found.
WE HAVE A SPECIAL NEED
TO FEEL THAT WE BELONG
COME WITH ME INSIDE
INSIDE MY VELVET ROPE
On the stereo, the new Janet Jackson CD spun its challenging music and concepts, and the title track provided the aural backdrop to a photo shoot for that year’s holiday card. The song became a fall staple, bringing me back to that cozy evening, where I made myself one of the first true martinis I ever had, as much as in service to the photo as to the desire to try something new. I didn’t do a very good job. Consulting Mr. Boston’s book of cocktails, I found the requisite ingredients (gin and dry vermouth from a recent party) but didn’t have any ice readily made, so I tried it without. (I know, I know – one, how was there a time when I didn’t have ice on hand, and two, what on earth was I thinking to make a martini without chilling it?)
Early days. Fledgling kills. Myriad mistakes.
THIS SPECIAL NEED
THAT’S WITHIN US
BRINGS OUT THE BEST
YET WORST IN US
FOLLOW THE PASSION
THAT’S WITHIN YOU
LIVING THE TRUTH
WILL SET YOU FREE
It went down my throat like fire, and I cringed. What in hell was this all about? What the fuck was wrong with James Bond? And why would anyone drink this? I set up the camera and posed, the martini would mostly be a prop that night, and I sipped a few more sips for photographic documentation. Wearing an acid green 60’s/70’s wide-collar shirt in swirls of psychedelic paisley, I had on a pair of matching tights. Yeah, tights. These shots would end up on the cutting-room floor, as the outfit wasn’t quite reading the way I wanted it to – the final holiday card would show me in a more dramatic ostrich feather robe, and a blue cocktail in hand (composed mostly of Windex and quite clearly for looks only). It was the 90’s. I was a fucking mess, but I didn’t see it then.
WE HAVE A SPECIAL NEED
TO FEEL THAT WE BELONG
COME WITH ME INSIDE
INSIDE MY VELVET ROPE
Ms. Jackson sang of the need to belong, and ‘Velvet Rope’ became one of my main songs that fall, mostly due to this single evening of solitude in the condo, continuing a tradition of fall songs that came to signal the shift in seasons, and the short path to the holidays. There was a coziness to it, and a certain dramatic flair that came with the falling leaves and the harsher winds.
Outside, Boston twinkled and glowed in the night – as my head danced with visions of those holidays to come, the friends and family I’d get to see, and a time we would be together again. This distance – of time and space – kept me feeling safe. I didn’t need the martini as anything more than a prop, and on that night I didn’t even bother to finish it. Feeling a twinge of waste as I poured it down the kitchen sink drain, I couldn’t stomach finishing it, as lovely as I suddenly felt.
PUT OTHERS DOWN
TO FILL US UP
OPPRESSING ME
WILL OPPRESS YOU
OUTSIDE LEAVE JUDGMENT
OUTSIDE LEAVE HATE
ONE LOVE’S THE ANSWER
YOU’LL FIND IN YOU
The rest of the ‘Velvet Rope’ album played out in the background as I cleaned up and gathered the rolls of film for developing. (Does anyone remember 35mm film anymore? Oh you kids – you had no idea how much work we once had to go through to get a decent image…) It ended with something called ‘Special’ – an echo of the sentiment of ‘Velvet Rope’ – and this remains one of Ms. Jackson’s under-appreciated jewels. This too became a song of that fall, and every fall afterward.
“You see, you can’t run away from your pain, because wherever you will, there you will be. You have to learn to water your spiritual garden. Then, you will be free.” ~ Janet Jackson
This is when the chill in the air starts to stick, when the vestiges of summer warmth in the ground finally release their hold. In the subways of the cities, that same warmth is suddenly a comfort you can feel leaving. It is both relief and cause for concern. After a summer when the heat was sometimes overbearing and overwhelming, a little chill was something you could embrace. Part of you knew it was wrong, that you would look back at this moment as when it all began and regret your friendliness with the first snap of cold, and part of you didn’t care because it felt inevitable.
In many ways, October is the anti-thesis of March – it comes in like a lamb and out like a lion. A lion in costume and Halloween splendor. Some of the year’s most beautiful days can be found here, when sunlight sifts through the canary yellow leaves of the trees after a rain, and the sidewalk reflects it all in brilliance you somehow don’t see in summer or spring. It’s a beauty found only in October.
Ropes of goldenrod drape the highways, while explosions of asters perform their shows like echoes of the Fourth of July. The light still carries some warmth, sometimes quite a bit, and the sky is likely the bluest it will be for the remainder of the year. It’s the blueness of the sky I will miss most, at least at first.
Slowly, and then quickly, it all begins to change. The leaves go first, just a few here and there, only in the strongest gusts of wind, and then a storm will come, maybe the remnants of hurricane, and suddenly just a few added drops of water tear them all off at once. Thrilling and obscene, it’s a striptease that’s over too quickly.
October
And the trees are stripped bare
Of all they wear
What do I care?
Greeting October this year gives me pause, like it usually does, but I’m a bit different than I was last year. Actually, I’m probably a lot different, and so my guard is up in new ways, and down in others. Over the past year, I’ve managed to deconstruct the forty-five-year-old fortress around me, while building an inner stability and sense of self that was somehow always there, but hidden and disguised, even to my bifocal-demanding eyes. And so as October arrives, I feel both naked and fortified. It will not be like last year, or any other year.
Goldenrod gets a bad reputation, blamed for the evils of ragweed when its own pollen is sticky and not airborne. It puts on the fiery show when it is the ragweed that is making everyone sneeze. I’ve always dreaded the arrival of goldenrod’s blooms, the way they signified school starting up again, the way they promised more people and more interactions, more stress and more worry, and more distance from the safety and sweetness of summer.
October
And kingdoms rise
And kingdoms fall
But you go on and on…
Yes, this year will be different, because I’ve shone a light in most of my dim corners, and driven away the shadows, mostly because they were make-believe, composed out of my own fears and perceived injustices. The ones that turned out to be real, the ones I had to confront, were dealt with and dismissed. Some proved stubborn and difficult to eradicate, and I had to work a little harder. Some are in a perpetual state of progress.
The work is challenging, but the work is good, and in spite of all the outward appearances I have carefully orchestrated over the last forty-five years, it turns out that I enjoy working hard toward something. My hands are as happy digging in the dirt of the garden as they are swirling the whipped body cream of the Beekman Boys into each other.
Fall is about hard work. Harvesting and preparing, stocking and baking, hunkering down and fluffing up the winter nest. October is when that process syncs and clicks. September contains more summer than fall – October finally gets to fully flower. Like the goldenrod, nodding along roadsides and forest edges, October is both showy and subdued. By the time the first hard frost arrives, it too will be laid bare.
